


I Light the Fire to Taste the Heat

by AnaliseGrey



Series: Where Light Fears to Tread [9]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Also- Caleb maybe don't give concrit to your torturer, Beating, Burns, But only a tiny bit, Could be read as Widofjord by the end, Dehydration, Dissociation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Seriously y'all Caleb is a mess by the end, Starvation, Torture, Whipping, finger trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:55:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27086707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey
Summary: The problem, Caleb thinks, with naming all your new spells after yourself, is that eventually people are going to notice you’re smart.Normally, he doesn’t have a problem with this; he’s well-aware how intelligent he is, though certainly not the only one within the Nein to have a high intellect. No, the main issue, he suspects, is that once people realize what you’re capable of, some of those people are like as not going to want to use that capability for nefarious purposes. Really, it's something he should be used to by now.
Series: Where Light Fears to Tread [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1441021
Comments: 29
Kudos: 205





	I Light the Fire to Taste the Heat

**Author's Note:**

> The obligatory 'Caleb the torture snob' fic. Happy Whumptober!

The problem, Caleb thinks, with naming all your new spells after yourself, is that eventually people are going to notice you’re smart.

Normally, he doesn’t have a problem with this; he’s well-aware how intelligent he is, though certainly not the only one within the Nein to have a high intellect. No, the main issue, he suspects, is that once people realize what you’re capable of, some of those people are like as not going to want to use that capability for nefarious purposes. Really, it's something he should be used to by now.

“This isn’t going to go well for you.”

The person escorting him doesn’t respond, just yanks harder on the chain connected to the cuffs at Caleb’s wrists, making him stumble along faster; the sharpened spikes within prick and pull, but it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

He could do without the blindfold, though.

“You realize that whoever you are, whatever you hope to gain, it will be worth nothing. It is only a matter of time before your doom arrives.”

There’s still no response, and Caleb sighs, resigning himself to grudging patience for the time being.

A few minutes of walking later finds him in a room where the sound echoes more strongly, with the hushed sound of voices coming from nearby. A hand on his shoulder stops his forward momentum, and catches him from tripping in surprise.

“Caleb Widogast?”

The voice is quiet, but not shy; they’re inquisitive, the words limned with a Zemnian accent.

“ _Ja_. I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, friend. Whose company do I have the privilege of sharing?”

“Your employer, for the moment. I have a proposition for you that will be advantageous to us both. Word of you has made its way around, referring to you as a mage of some distinction. All I’m interested in is a little tutelage. One of your own creations, I believe, your Vault of Amber. Something like that would be an incredible advantage in the smuggling trade. I of course don’t expect you to stay forever and do it yourself, I’m not unreasonable. I only ask that you teach me how to do it, and then you can be on your way, no muss, no fuss. You will of course be compensated for your work. I’m a rather adept student- I don’t expect it to take up too much of your time.”

Caleb takes a moment to process the request, and very quickly comes to a decision.

“While your offer is generous, I’m afraid I must decline. Not that I don’t appreciate your...hospitality-” He pauses, lifting his hands gingerly and ducking his head with a smile. “-but I can’t go teaching my spells to just anyone. Intellectual property, I’m sure you understand.”

“That is a shame.” Steps now, the rustle of fabric as someone moves closer, and then there’s fingers gripping his chin with a strength he wouldn’t have expected. “I’m sure given enough time we can convince you to reconsider.”

Caleb smiles, and wonders if this person has any idea what they’re getting themselves into.

“Well, _mein Freund_...you can certainly try.”

  
  
  
  
The first few hours go about how he expects.

They try to soften him up, punching and kicking, knocking him around. He probably shouldn’t smile through it, their confusion only makes them angry, and that makes them hit harder. By the end though, when they toss him into a small room he thinks might be a closet, based on the size, he’s still smiling. He hurts everywhere, the heat and tightness of bruising so prevalent it’s hard to notice much else. His wrists sting, sharp lances of pain where the spikes on the cuffs continue to prick and pull at skin torn from struggling. He’s sure he must look a sight, but he still hasn’t agreed to anything he’ll regret. He has the upper hand, he’s still in control, for all that it must look very much otherwise, and that’s what matters. This isn’t the first beating he’s taken and he knows it’s far from the last. In the grand scheme of things, it’s inconsequential.

An hour later they come for him again, pulling him out and down a hallway, back towards where this started, back to the room with the Voice.

The Voice explains as strong hands hold him still and pour salt water over his wrists that, “It’s a precautionary measure, you see. We don’t want any infection to set in. I appreciate that as a caster your hands are valuable. I of course don’t want anything...permanent...to happen to them.”

It’s difficult, because it burns like fire, but Caleb manages to bite back any reaction other than a choked grunt before responding.

“How hospitable of you.”

“There’s no reason for this to continue. I don’t think I’m asking anything unreasonable. All you need to do is teach me the spell, and then you can be on your way. I have no desire to keep you here any longer than necessary. You only hurt yourself with your stubbornness.”

“Oh,” Caleb says, thinking of what his friends will do to these people. “I don’t know about that.”

They try a whip next, and all Caleb can think as they tie him down is ‘mistake’. If they want him in a shape to cast in the event he gives in, they’d better hope they have a healer available, because while he _can_ cast in such a state, he doesn’t think he’ll be of a mind to be _too_ helpful. They’re at least smart enough to tie him down over something- a barrel, if the rough, curved wood banded by cold metal under him is any indication- so that he doesn’t damage his hands further if he pulls or falls unconscious. They also take his shirt, which he appreciates. It means the whip will cut faster, but at least he won’t have to deal with Jester or Caduceus picking bits of his shirt out of his back later.

The experience is just as miserable as he remembers, and he screams freely. It hurts, and there’s no reason to pretend it doesn’t. He tries to distract himself by calculating how long it will take the Nein to show up, at the earliest. His captors didn’t knock him out when they took him, so he’s aware of how long it took to get here, and so he knows it’s at least that long plus however long it takes for the others to even realize he’s missing. He imagines the books and holsters sitting on the bed will be some indication that something has gone amiss. Serves him right for going to the bar to get a cup of coffee before getting fully dressed.

On the plus side, they don’t have his books. Silver linings everywhere.

They eventually tire of wringing screams from him, leaving him where he is while they go off somewhere else. He’s not thrilled about still being tied to a barrel, but it does beat being tossed back into the closet he was in before. The floor in there would do nothing good to the open wounds up and down his back.

Partway through waiting for his captors to return, Caleb passes the mental threshold he’d set for himself. The earliest his friends could have found him has passed, so now it’s just a matter of waiting for them to play catch up. While the experience hasn’t been pleasant so far, he doesn’t think he’s in much real danger; he hasn’t given them what they want, and it’s been less than a full day, still. As long as the people holding him don’t do anything _too_ stupid, he should be fine, if a bit worse for wear.

They wait long enough that by the time they pull him off the barrel it’s difficult to move, his muscles gone stiff and sore, the welts on his back tugging and reopening as they carry him along. Caleb’s mind helpfully points out they’re heading back to the room with the Voice, and he only sways a little as they pull him to a stop again.

“I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind? You’ve been through a fair bit so far, and nobody would think less of you if you were to concede. It’s the smart thing to do, and I know you’re very smart.”

“I am that, _ja_ , but I also know that giving in is a slippery slope, and I’m a vindictive asshole.” Caleb grins, though it pulls his split lip open again, dribbling blood down his chin. “I can’t wait to see what my friends will do to you when they find you.”

There’s a contemplative pause, and then the hands on his arms tighten a scant second before there’s a thumb pressing hard against his split lip. He hisses in a breath, and tenses, but the hands holding him don’t let him get far.

“Perhaps we’ve been too hasty,” the Voice says. “We haven’t given you a chance to really think about your answer. Thankfully, that’s something easily remedied.” Fingers snap nearby, and he’s pulled away again.

They walk him a fair distance, away from where he thinks his first holding room was, and when they pull him to a stop again, it’s to the sound of a deadbolt being thrown back. Unoiled hinges shriek in protest, and then he’s shoved forward, stumbling over a raised threshold. He manages to twist to land so his shoulder takes the brunt of the fall; trying to catch himself on his hands while still in the anti-caster cuffs would have been decidedly unpleasant. His shoulder will bruise, but it’s better than having his wrists torn open.

The door shuts behind him, and there’s the muffled _thunk_ of the deadbolt sliding home.

Caleb gives himself a few minutes to just be, to let himself wallow before actively assessing his situation. The cuffs will make any sort of casting that requires somatics very difficult, if not dangerous. The blindfold, with individual padded pieces that cover his eyes, is locked onto him somehow, but with his hands cuffed as they are, he can’t reach the lock to figure it out. It’s difficult to target without being able to see, but not impossible; if it comes down to it, he’d rather try and miss than not try at all. Truth be told, one of the biggest obstacles, other than the obvious, is the lack of components, another product of his complacency. He imagines they’re still sitting on top of his pack, and he curses himself for a fool for having left his inn room without them.

It’s chilly in the room he’s in, more so for the lack of a shirt, though it’s for the best- he doesn’t relish the idea of trying to wear a shirt right now. His back is still stinging and sore, a wash of pain; he knows it will only worsen as time passes and the muscles stiffen further. His stomach is starting to realize he hasn’t eaten all day other than a few sips of coffee, but he’s in enough pain it’s dampening his appetite. It’s a tarnished blessing, but a blessing nonetheless, and he's no stranger to hunger. He does wish they’d given him some water, but it will be a few days yet before things become dire. He recognizes it for the softening tactic it is, and appreciates that they have persuasive means other than brute force.

Resigning himself to the fact that he’s stuck for the time being, Caleb begins the arduous process of getting up from the floor. It’s not usually so difficult, even with his hands bound, but the lacerations on his back and shoulders are making him unsteady. He isn’t looking forward to the eventual medical treatment he knows is coming once he’s found. Magical healing is all well and good, but not if you’re healing bits of dirt and grit into the wounds you’re closing.

He takes the given opportunity to rest as best he can. While it would be nice if the Nein showed up before anything else happens, he doesn’t bank on it; his isn’t the sort of luck that lends itself to timely rescue and intervention.

Caleb finds himself proven correct the next day when they return for him. He’s dozed on and off through the night, but deep, restful sleep has eluded him. Thankfully, sleep deprivation is something he experiences fairly regularly, so it’s not much of an impediment, at least not at this stage of things. On a long enough timeline it could prove a problem, but he hopes it won’t come to that.

Once again, they bring him to the room, and once again he declines the Voice’s invitation. The tone the Voice takes after his refusal indicates an increasing lack of patience, and as it sends him off for the next round of whatever they have planned for him, he wonders how long this game will continue.

How long he’ll be able to survive it.

They go for his fingernails next, and while it makes sense from a tactical standpoint- painful, but not debilitating unless infection is allowed to set in- the practical execution leaves something to be desired.

He’s managed to bite his tongue for the first few, but after the fourth, he can’t help himself.

“Too fast,” he rasps, throat growing ever-drier.

“What?”

“You are doing it too fast. You are treating it like a bandage to be ripped off, something to get over with quickly. While I appreciate it, it’s sloppy work. You’d do better to go slower, make it linger. More effective that way.”

Silence for a few moments, and he can only imagine the look his torturer is giving him, but when they start again they’ve slowed down. It’s an odd thing to be proud over, he knows, but he can’t help but be ever-so-slightly pleased nonetheless.

“You’re quite stubborn, you know that?”

He’s back in the room, his fingers throbbing mercilessly after the most-recent round of attempted persuasion.

“I’ve been told as much, yes.”

“You’re surprisingly resilient. Most people in your occupation wouldn’t be holding up so well.”

Caleb huffs a humorless laugh. “I suppose it’s a matter of perspective. Your people are good, but I’ve had better.”

There’s a contemplative hum, some murmured words he doesn’t quite catch, and he’s being dragged off again.

The rest of the day goes as expected- they hurt him, and he refuses to be cowed, which he hopes isn’t a surprise to them by now.

And then they bring the hot pokers out.

They have him out of the anti-caster cuffs, for which he’s thankful, but only so they can strap him down to a table. He knows he’s in trouble the moment he hears the crackle of the fire they have going nearby, the scent of smoke hitting him as they tighten the straps at his wrists, chest, and ankles. He tries to prepare himself, but it’s impossible, and he’s screaming before he even fully registers the first kiss of hot iron to skin.

Panting, in shock from the pain, he startles at the hiss at his ear.

“ _That_ good enough for ya?”

He can’t answer, can hardly draw a breath before they’re pressing the searing metal to him again.

They’re being careful, avoiding vitals, but burns hurt in a way that nothing else does, deep and inescapable, throbbing in time to the hammering of his heart. He keeps trying to breathe through it, but that only brings him the smell of burning flesh, and before he knows it, he’s gone.

Caleb comes back to himself some time later, still strapped to the table. There are more burns pulsing across his skin than he remembers getting, and thinks hazily that it must have taken them a few minutes to notice he wasn’t fully present. The burns on his feet are going to make walking difficult, and he’s glad he wasn’t aware for those.

He’s jostled from his musings by hands unbuckling the straps that hold him down, and he lays there, deciding it’s not weakness to not struggle. They free him, and he doesn’t have the energy to fight them as they pull him off the table, the rough wood dragging across his back in a way that tells him it’s going to be an even bigger mess than it was already.

Walking does in fact prove difficult, and by the time he’s back in the room with the Voice he’s given up trying, letting himself be dragged along. It makes his arms and shoulders ache, but he also knows walking would be far, far worse.

When they get where they’re going, they let go of his arms and he drops, knees slamming into stone as he hits, barely catching himself from going face-first into the floor. What feels like a shoe nudges at his bare shoulder, then kicks him over onto his back where he lands with a wheeze. He tries to curl up, to protect his stomach and head, but the owner of the shoe is faster, pressing their foot against Caleb’s throat until he stills, hands grasping weakly at their ankle.

“I’m afraid we’re quickly coming to an impasse. I don’t want to kill you, that would defeat the whole purpose of having you brought here to start with. But you should also know I don’t like being refused quite this often.”

“Oh, then you’re _really_ going to hate this.”

Caleb thinks he’s hallucinating Fjord’s voice, a product of wishful thinking, but the sound of Eldritch Blasts impacting above him helps convince him otherwise, as does the sudden lack of a foot pinning him down.

There’s a sudden flurry of activity around him, and it’s all Caleb can do to curl up like he’d initially intended, trying to stay low and out of the way. He can hear his friends shouting, the sounds of fighting everywhere, and while he knew they’d come for him, knew it was only a matter of time, it’s still nice to be sure.

His relief lasts up until a hand fists in his hair, yanking up, and he can’t help the pained cry as he struggles to get to his knees to follow the pull. He’s glad they don’t try to pull him to his feet; he isn’t sure he can stand. Something sharp and cold presses to his throat and he freezes, barely daring to breathe.

“He’s survived so much already, do you really want him to die now, while you watch? I can make that happen.”

The sounds of fighting come to an abrupt halt, and he catches Yasha’s low growl to one side, and cursing from Beau as well. The hand in his hair shakes harshly side-to-side for a second, moving his head with it, and the blade at his throat nicks in with a sting.

“Tell him to teach me the spell I want, leave peacefully, and I promise I will deliver him back to you once I know it works. There’s no reason for this to end messily.”

The whole while the Voice is talking, Caleb is slowly moving his hands, letting them flutter up as if he’s unsure whether or not to grasp the hands holding him. He closes his eyes behind the blindfold, focusing on the Voice, on where he’s hearing it from. He hooks his thumbs together, moving his hands up and over his head in a smooth motion, uttering a word and hoping he’s guessed correctly. Fire bursts from his hands, and there’s a shriek behind him as the hand in his hair abruptly releases, the blade at his throat falling away.

It’s difficult to target without seeing, but it’s not impossible.

The Voice is screaming now, crying for help, but if the sounds from around them are any indication, the Nein are keeping their helpers occupied; when the Voice cuts off with a sudden wet gurgle, Caleb has a feeling Veth has taken care of it in a more permanent manner.

He falls to his hands and knees, energy quickly failing him now that rescue is imminent. He barely catches the scuff of a boot on stone before there’s a light hand on his shoulder, and his hands are already coming up to cast when a familiar voice pulls him up short.

“Cay, it’s me, I’ve got you.”

Hands find his, pressing Caleb’s fingers to a familiar scar along a sword-calloused palm, and he takes a shaking breath, the fight draining out of him. Fjord puts a hand back on Caleb’s shoulder, far more gentle than anything else he’s felt recently, and a small burst of healing magic washes through him, the relief stealing his breath for a moment. He sways in place, and Fjord’s hand on his shoulder tightens, no longer so painful to bear as it steadies him.

“It’s alright- here, let me help you.” Fjord’s hand moves from Caleb’s shoulder and reaches up, urging Caleb to duck his head. He hums in thought at whatever he sees, and has Caleb sit back up again.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Alright, then-” There’s a mist of salt-scented water that Caleb associates with Fjord dismissing Star Razor, and then the soft sound of a smaller, less-magical blade being drawn from a sheath. “I’m going to cut this thing off your head, since I think that will be easier than trying to get the lock open. That and Veth is-” Fjord pauses. “-occupied, at the moment.”

Caleb tilts his head to the side, doing his best to keep still, but he’s begun to shake, and he doesn’t know that he can stop right now. Fjord puts a steadying hand on one side of Caleb’s face, another flash of healing working through him and healing Caleb’s split lip as it goes. Fjord makes quick work of some of the straps with his finely honed dagger, and soon it’s just a matter of untangling the mess of straps from Caleb’s hair. He keeps his eyes closed at first, squinting them open after a moment. His vision is blurred, eyes not yet adjusted to the light, and as he turns to look around, Fjord catches him carefully by the face, steering his gaze forward again.

“I think it’s for the best you don’t look over there right now.”

It’s on the tip of Caleb’s tongue to protest, to argue that after everything he wants to see the face of the person who did this to him, but then he sees the look of earnest concern on Fjord’s face, and decides it’s something he can probably live without.

“ _Ja_ , okay.” He pats Fjord’s wrists, then gives them a squeeze of thanks.

“Are you able to walk?”

Considering, Caleb takes stock of himself, and while he wouldn’t have been able to even ten minutes prior, he thinks now, thanks to Fjord, he’ll be able to limp along. He nods, and Fjord pulls back and rolls to his feet, holding his hands out to help Caleb up. He manages to stand, if only just; it still hurts, but it’s manageable. He starts to list to the side again, dizzy, but Fjord slides an arm around him, supporting him, and together they move forward without looking back.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Sam Tinnesz's "Play With Fire"
> 
> This has been percolating for awhile, and I've only just gotten my brain to cooperate enough to finish it. So...here we are *gestures at the fic*


End file.
